Le Cœur du Petit Prince
by vietblueart
Summary: When France discovers the Little Prince on the coldest winter day in the world, he finds to his horror that his heart has frozen over and the boy is dying, and pleads with England to save him.


_**Author's Note: **This is actually a three-way crossover with _Hetalia, The Little Prince, _and important aspects from _Jack and the Cuckoo-Clock Heart, _where the protagonist Jack is born on the coldest day in the world and so his heart is frozen solid, and the midwife replaces it with a cuckoo clock and gives him those three rules to keep it from malfunctioning._ The Little Prince _is a children's story where a boy, who lives on an asteroid with a single rose that he loves, comes down to Earth to search for what is truly important in life. It's a beautiful and surprisingly deep story that I recommend for everyone!_ _Anyway, t__hi__s story is meant to be a one-shot and only a one-shot, so I really doubt that I'll be updating this. Sorry. But nonetheless, I do hope that you enjoy it! X3_

_Art credit goes to **megatruh** on deviantART!_

* * *

It was the coldest day in the world, or so that was how it seemed. Thick ice lined the roads and sidewalks, frost adorned the windows of buildings like swirling white lace. Snow was falling slowly from a billowing dark sky, powdery drifts covering the streets with chill. All was soft and quiet.

France shivered and pulled his coat tighter around him as he walked, trying to hurry. His footsteps crunched through the snow; he was the only one out in this frigid weather, having gone to buy a few bottles of wine. On winter nights such as these, he enjoyed nothing more than to curl up comfortably before a crackling fire, a glass of warm, spiced wine in hand.

Just thinking about it sent another shiver down his bones and he quickened his pace. "Goodness, but it is enough to freeze a ghost out here!" he couldn't help muttering.

The world meeting had been scheduled for that week — the first in a very long while — but the inclement weather had gotten it postponed indefinitely, to the point where they were now discussing whether to wait out the predicted blizzard or move the meeting someplace else.

Though if one good thing had come from all this, it was that Arthur was, put simply, thoroughly _pissed_. It was his capital they had gone to for the meeting, but no one had expected the abrupt freak weather. Despite the fact nobody was blaming him (excluding a frustrated few like Lovino Vargas), Arthur evidently felt somehow responsible — not to mention profoundly embarrassed about the utter inconvenience this caused the other Nations. Since there was a forecast for the severe weather to last through the next few days, it was not possible for them to take a plane home.

So at the very least, Francis was entertaining himself with the sight of Arthur flustered and apologetic; that was for certain.

He chuckled at the memory now; his exhalations trailed behind him, ghostly white in the darkness. Breathing on his gloved hands to warm them, he turned to adjust the package of wine bottles underneath his arm.

It was then that he saw the tiny figure in the snow. One could argue that it was fate, perhaps some higher being's design: for otherwise Francis would have never noticed him.

Tousled blonde hair. A worn yellow scarf. A coat suited for royalty, cobalt-blue and edged in scarlet, now glazed with ice. Gold star pins that appeared silver under the winter moon.

He was motionless, still as death. The drifts of snow surrounding him seemed to swallow him, a lonely sight.

The bottles slipped suddenly from Francis' grasp. The snow underneath cushioned their fall but the sharp sound of striking glass jolted him back to his senses. "Oh — oh, no, no, no—" He didn't even seem to hear the words leaving his mouth, rushing forward to drop to his knees beside the little figure, eyes widening in horror.

"Oh no, no, you should not have come, no—"

His body was so cold, his skin was nearly blue, there was ice on his fingers, on his eyelashes. Francis dug away the snow, reaching for him, feeling for a breath, a pulse, anything, anything.

"_Mon prince, mon petit prince, je suis ici, je suis ici, ne quittez pas—_"

Nothing. Francis choked back a sob and lifted the boy from the snow, clutching him against his heaving chest. What could he do? What could he do? Time was running out, oh, oh he could feel it, just barely feel it: a heartbeat, thank goodness, a heartbeat, but muffled and dying under a thickening layer of ice. And it was fading and fading fast, sand slipping through his fingers, no, no—

_Arthur._

That was it. Francis gasped and lurched to his feet, holding the boy protectively against him, carrying him. He rushed through the streets of London, trying to remember through his growing panic exactly where Arthur's manor lay.

Only Arthur could save the boy in his arms now.

"_Ne quittez pas, ne quittez pas, je vais vous sauver…!_"

* * *

Many years ago, there had been a war. There are few people nowadays who do not know of it.

Francis of course had fought in that war. How could he not, with fires bursting around his country and the sound of bombs echoing on the horizon? That time had been full of dark memories. Whenever there'd be a moment to spare, Matthew — his dear Matthew — would call to make sure he was all right, his soft voice trembling and apprehensive. _Yes, yes, I am fine,_ Francis would reassure him, every time. _You worry about yourself now, Matthieu_. And Matthew promised that he would. Then he would be called away and would have to hang up, Francis listening to the dial tone for a long time afterwards.

During that short time that Francis was alone, when his fighter plane had went down and he'd found himself utterly alone in the African desert, he'd realized how much Matthew's calls had meant to him. They had been reassurance that Matthew was indeed doing fine, albeit wearily so, and despite Francis' own situation he'd suddenly been overwhelmed with worry. Was Matthew all right? Was Alfred? Even though the American seldom called, and their conversation would be rushed and loud, it was soothing to know that Alfred thought of Francis from time to time.

And Arthur? How was he faring against Ludwig? The bombings, the bombings... Francis remembered that he hated thinking about them. Jumbled memories of acrid smoke and flying shrapnel — of screams and burns and gasping breath — Arthur aching or in pain or in bone-shattering agony — all of it had him scrambling at the mechanics of the plane, desperate to escape. His fingers were stained black from motor oil, making the tools slip from his trembling hands to the ground, frantic curses rolling off his tongue. When he'd snatched them up from the ground, the desert sand felt cold and gritty between his fingers.

Francis spent the first day of strandedness alone. It was during the night that he met him.

The boy from the stars.

The boy who loved sunsets.

His little prince.

"_Please...draw me a sheep..._"

It had been over sixty years since, and now the boy had returned, no doubt taken advantage of yet another migration of birds to fly down from his distant star. But what had he returned for? Why come back to this turning Earth, only to succumb to the coldest day Francis could remember? To have more questions answered? To look for something? Or some_one_?

If it had been _him_ the little prince had returned for, if it had been for Francis... He did not know what he would do.

"Oh, live, please...live..."

When Arthur yanked open the door, furious and right about to shout at whoever had been banging on it for the last five minutes, he was met by two words: "Save him." His mouth snapped shut at once, sharp green eyes taking in the sight before him. Francis kneeling on the threshold, clutching an unconscious boy in his arms; the deathly blue pallor of the boy's face; Francis' wild and desperate gaze; frozen lips and eyelashes; gasping breath and lips moving, forming words that required more breath to say; when was the last time he'd seen Francis like this, on his knees, staring up at him in a panic, _begging—_

"Get in."

The Englishman was a difficult man, admittedly, and perhaps one who had his temper flare more often than he liked. But one thing he certainly wasn't and that was slow: the instant Francis had staggered into the hall, he slammed the door shut and bolted it. The boy was suddenly taken from Francis' arms and orders flung at him instead. Get hot water bottles, warm blankets, a cloth, as many as possible, bring it all to the main room and _quickly. _Francis didn't hesitate and hurried off at once. A glance back, however, rewarded him with the image of Arthur carrying the boy away, face grave but determined. In the dim lamplight, their blonde hair made them seem very similar indeed.

When Francis entered the main room with everything he'd been asked for, he found that Arthur had laid the boy out on a couch. In front of it was the roaring fireplace. The man had his fingers on the boy's neck and was cursing. As Francis approached he suddenly leaped up, running over to the cabinets and opening and closing them, searching for something frantically.

"Start getting him warm! I have to determine just how bad it is. Ugh, dammit, where is it?!" Arthur slammed a cabinet door shut and started rooting through another. Francis just nodded and began doing what he could to warm the boy.

He used a cloth to wipe the frost from the boy's face and hair, then undid and took off his heavy clothes, which were now soaking with melted snow. Quickly he dried him off and wrapped him in several fleece blankets, tucking them around the boy's frozen feet. Hot water bottles were placed around his torso. And the entire time he couldn't stop murmuring to the boy in French, fearful words, comforting words, not caring if they were heard or not. Gently he held the boy to his chest, hugging him, patting his damp hair with another dry cloth.

"_Vous serez bien, vous êtes en sécurité maintenant_…"

"Here!" Arthur's sudden shout made him jump, and he turned to see the Englishman trotting towards them. His face was triumphant. In his hand was a thin, foot-long piece of delicately carved wood, darkened with age and use. A wand.

"Stand back, frog," he said, cupping his hand around the pointed tip. The look in his eyes had changed; it almost frightened Francis. The authority in Arthur's voice was likewise different. Both held a strange resonance, a great power, somehow indicating that Francis was in unknown waters that Arthur and Arthur alone knew how to navigate.

So he obeyed, getting up and letting Arthur approach, the Englishman closing his eyes as he came to tower over the boy's still form. His lips formed soundless words, his brow furrowing in concentration as the clock on the mantle tick-tocked, tick-tocked, tick-tocked…

Francis stood nearby, watched with a dark expression, his heart pounding in his chest wildly. His eyes kept flickering back and forth, between the equally still forms of Arthur and the boy. A long minute passed, and Francis was starting to lose patience when Arthur finally moved. He opened his eyes and touched the tip of his wand to the boy's chest. Green eyes focused, and he said a word of power that froze Francis' blood and sent a tremble through his bones.

When Arthur drew his wand away, there was a soft cracking sound, as if a sheet of ice was breaking. Francis let out a shuddering breath and took a step forward, expression hopeful, so hopeful, but then Arthur turned and the look on his face rooted him to the spot.

_No. No._

"I'm sorry... There's nothing we can do."

_No. No. NO! _"_N…Non…_ That can't be… No, it cannot be! Do not say that!"

"I am sorry. Truly I am." Arthur stepped back, and the pity with which he regarded Francis was sickening. "But his heart has frozen over. We can't do anything more."

"No!" Francis lunged, seizing Arthur by the collar and shaking him, a hint of hysteria in his eyes. "That cannot be true! You are lying to me!"

"I am sorry," Arthur just repeated and pried his fingers away from his neck. His expression was sympathetic. "Believe me, Francis, I am so sorry."

Francis slumped at those words, his breath coming in gasps, unwilling to believe it. He couldn't save him? He couldn't save this child, this dear child? And suddenly a vivid mental image reared in his mind: a solitary rose on a lonely planet, waiting, waiting for him, dying—

His despairing gaze fell onto Arthur's wand then.

"...For all your magic, you cannot save him?"

Arthur stiffened. Hope surged into Francis' chest again, roaring in his ears.

"It's not that simple—"

"You can." Hope was soon followed by rage. Black, burning rage. "And you _choose not to_."

"It is not that _simple!_" Arthur's face contorted and he practically spat his words at Francis. "All you people, you think magic is just something to take from, something to use like a tool! But it is not like that! There is always a price, Francis! There are always _consequences!_ Yes, I can indeed save him, but there will be unimaginable repercussions for restoring a life!"

"I don't care!" Francis was towering over the Englishman, eyes crazed with grief and anguished need. "You must save this child's life, no matter the cost! Save him, _Angleterre_, or I will never forgive you for this!"

"Francis—"

"Save him. Or else his blood will be on your hands, I swear it. Just as it is with _her_."

He realized a moment too late exactly what he'd just said.

Arthur's face went stony. For an agonizingly long moment he merely stared at Francis, green eyes shocked and all of a sudden hateful, before he turned away just as fast. His back was so rigid he was actually trembling. When he spoke again, his voice came out as a quiet hiss.

"Fine then. I'll save him. But then you will understand what I mean by consequences."

He whirled around and stormed back to the many drawers and cabinets ringed around the room, grabbing things from them and ramming them closed in a rage. When Francis caught a glimpse of his face, it was set in an expression of utter fury.

The French man remained silent, sitting down slowly to hold the boy again. There was still no sign of life, no breath or heartbeat. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of Arthur's resentment echo throughout the spacious manor.

The fire in the humongous grate cracked and sizzled and threw hot sparks into the air. Francis whispered softly to his little prince, willing him to breathe, to live, and he started when without warning, Arthur's voice sounded beside him.

"Move."

Arthur didn't wait for a response, simply shoving him aside to kneel by the couch. He refused to look at Francis as he set an array of oddly mismatched things on the coffee table. A palm-sized clock. A tiny key. A pair of scissors. His wand. Thread and a needle. A small porcelain dish. A handkerchief. A glinting scalpel. All of them were fairly inconspicuous things, unassuming and hardly that threatening. Looking at them, however, Francis felt a chill creep down his spine.

"What are you going to do?"

"Replace it."

"What…?"

Arthur turned on him all at once, his jaw clenched so tight that a muscle was twitching.

"I am doing what you asked me to, you ignorant bastard! I am replacing the damn heart to save his life! Now shut up and leave me to do what I need to!" He looked ready to strike him, but in the next instant his fist clenched and he looked back at the boy, breathing raggedly.

Without another word, he reached out for his wand as well as the handkerchief and scalpel. Francis paled when Arthur sat down beside the boy, the tiny blade poised over his unmoving chest. Arthur laid the tip of his wand against the boy's forehead and murmured something under his breath, then the scalpel moved downwards.

Francis looked away.

At that moment, the window burst open, blown by the howling wind. A flurry of snow and stinging frost whirled into the room, blasting them with a bone-chilling cold. The blizzard predicted by the weather forecast had come. In the grate the fire seemed to froth and battle with the icy wind that met it.

"Francis," Arthur ground out between gritted teeth; he didn't even look up from what he was doing. "Go close the window."

The man swallowed and nodded, holding his arm over his eyes as he fought to get near the window. Already his teeth were chattering, his fingers gone numb. Shivering, he struggled to grip the windowpanes and shove it closed, gasping in relief upon succeeding. Outside the blizzard roared against the glass, fighting to get inside again.

He drew the curtains and leaned against them heavily, trying to ignore the sounds coming from behind him. There was the click of a knife being set on the table. The snip of scissors. A muted clatter against porcelain and a rustle of fabric. Metal scraping as something was picked up. Arthur muttering under his breath constantly, words that Francis couldn't make sense of.

When Francis finally turned, the lace handkerchief was stained a wet, bright red, even though there wasn't a single trace of blood elsewhere. It covered something that'd been placed on the dish, concealing it. Arthur was bent over the boy's chest, sewing with adroit fingers, his thick eyebrows knitted in concentration. Francis took a hesitant seat on the arm of the couch. He watched the little prince's face intently for any sign of pain, of awakening. There were none; Arthur snipped the thread with his scissors and leaned back, sighing.

"Almost done…"

It was unclear whether he was addressing Francis or the boy — in any case, he didn't say anything more. Instead he reached out for the key on the table, taking it into his palm. Whispering under his breath, with his wand Arthur traced the clock affixed to the boy's chest, eyes focusing before he inserted the key into the clock's core. One turn, then two, three, four, five.

He withdrew the key and the riotous bedlam of a cuckoo rang throughout the room, twelve times. After the noise faded away, a quiet, steady ticking took its place.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick_.

Like a pulse.

Francis' eyes widened when he saw the boy's fingers twitch. He rushed forward to seize them, looking up at the child's face with raw hope. "_Mon prince?_" he whispered hoarsely. "Can you hear me?"

His eyes opened, bleary and confused. Oh, those blue eyes, such familiar blue eyes. A small crease appeared on his forehead and his gaze fixed on Arthur, then on Francis, blinking slowly. Dried lips parted and he managed to say, in a faint whisper, "I know you…"

"Yes! Yes, you know me!" Francis was almost crying with joy. He fell to his knees and clasped his little prince's hand between his. "You're alive, I can't believe it, you're alive…!"

"You…drew me a sheep…" The boy's eyes were falling closed, and his mouth moved slightly as he tried to continue speaking, however failing as he succumbed to the darkness of sleep. Francis let out a gasping laugh and pressed an affectionate kiss to his knuckles. He turned to thank Arthur, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

However, he was shocked into silence when he found Arthur glaring at him icily.

"There are three things you have to know."

Francis couldn't say anything. Arthur continued, "He must not, under _any_ circumstances, touch the hands of that clock. It's the only thing keeping him alive now, and neither he nor anyone else can disturb it." Seeing that Francis was going to say something, he cut him off with a glower and said, "There's more. A great deal more.

"He cannot get angry. He cannot lose his temper. In short, he cannot have any sort of strong emotion or else that clock will burn out and malfunction. Which can and most likely will turn out to be utterly _disastrous._"

Then Arthur hesitated. He glanced down at his hands, frowning. Francis blinked and looked down at the little prince; his expression was so peaceful now, and yet—

"What… What more is there?"

Arthur's lips pressed into a thin line, and then he said, very softly, "That includes love. He can't…fall in love. Never. Never that. If he does, the clock will falter, break, even implode. It'll kill him if he falls in love."

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Francis felt as if he suddenly couldn't breathe.

The rose. The little prince and his rose.

"But…" His voice was just a horrified whisper. "It is too late… He has already…!"

"Then he has to forget!" Arthur's hands clenched and he looked at Francis with an expression that was not angry but completely distraught. Afraid. "He has to forget or else he will die!"

"He would rather die." The French man stared down at the boy, numb. "He would rather die than forget her."

"…Then…" Arthur's hands relaxed, and a tired look fell across his face. "I'm sorry. There's nothing more I can do..."

No blame. No castigations. No harsh, punishing words.

Just an apology.

Oh.

Oh, please…

Arthur got up slowly, gathering together the items on the table. With a jolt Francis realized that there was still blood on his fingertips, which the Englishman quickly wiped off on the handkerchief. Not another word was spoken until Arthur left the room.

"I am truly sorry."

Then Francis was alone, alone with the little prince and his new cuckoo-clock heart. A heart that would reject his rose and all thought of her. A heart that would banish him to the coldness and terror of loneliness. A heart that might as well have been made of ice.

_Oh._

_What have I done?_

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._

_Tick._


End file.
